


Out of Entertainment and Selfishness

by 37h4n0l



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa Zero
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bruises, Insults, Light Bondage, M/M, Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, and get choked too, concealed affectionate undertones, it's matsuda there's no way there weren't gonna be insults, izuru wants to die, matsuda is really obsessed with science and loses it a few times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/37h4n0l
Summary: Kamukura seeks entertainment in the most extreme ways, Matsuda ends up giving him what he wants. No strings attached in an intersection so devoid of hope - or a small thread, yes, maybe.[porn with half a plot and Izuru with a choking kink]





	Out of Entertainment and Selfishness

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the lack of matsukamu smut and decided to get to work. You guys have *no idea* how many times I had to delete stuff and go back on my steps. They're both insanely hard to characterize, it's a struggle to make Matsuda rude in the childish way he is in the novel - not too tame and not a complete asshole - or to make Izuru deal with the existence of his own emotions in an in-character way. Please, just take it as porn. My gf also has a hc (which I've picked up) that Izuru is deeply suicidal, so there's that. I hope it's not only my headcanon that Matsuda is extremely passionate about science to the point of obsession. This is probably too harsh for the tame people and has too much subtly inserted fluff for the wild ones, a clusterfuck altogether, please just appreciate my efforts.

It’s time for the evening checkup and Matsuda is late. Sure, by five minutes, but it’s more than enough for any other project member to kick up a fuss about it, resulting in more serious consequences than whatever the test subject can do in those five minutes. His toes feel a bit cold as he walks on the corridor - Matsuda can’t be bothered to wear anything but the same slippers, even when the weather isn’t adequate. He can’t be bothered to do many things, in fact. Same would go for this visit to Mr. Guinea Pig if he had a choice in the matter. 

 

_ Mr. Guinea Pig _ , better known as Izuru Kamukura. There’s an irony in it because it sounds silly in contrast with the the person itself, moreover Matsuda likes poking fun at him just to see what kind of condescending response he’ll get this time. It’s the only way to interact with Kamukura that isn’t an utter pain in the ass. Again, if it depended on the neurologist, they wouldn’t be chatting in the first place; it’d be a nice, silent checkup and then he would leave to finally read some manga and sleep. Instead, the subject has his own terrible habit of complaining about being bored  _ constantly _ . Kamukura’s expression of the desire to be entertained has manifested itself in a variety of ways of such an unpredictability - anything between obliterating the entire lab and attempting to sever his own limbs - that at least Matsuda, for one, can say he’s not bored. Just stressed, infinitely and constantly  _ stressed _ , he thinks, irritation verging on anger, when he turns around the corner. He’s almost there, a series of doors and run-down lockers illuminated by the few flickering lights that had been turned on. To show him the way, and nothing else; this is the old school building after all, everything is broken, dark and malfunctioning except for the equipment needed for the Kamukura Project. 

 

He’s there already, completely on his own (of course, why would they get him any kind of assistance), and Matsuda carefully locks the door behind himself before even taking a better look at him; lab safety. Kamukura is sitting on the chair behind the desk.  _ Matsuda’s chair _ . His legs are crossed and he’s nonchalantly toying with an empty test tube, throwing it up several metres high and watching it flip a few times before catching it again. Matsuda’s eyes widen and his first instinct is to charge in.

 

“What are you doing, you little shi-”

 

Before he can snatch the test tube away, Kamukura tosses it up again whimsically, not even acknowledging his presence. It hits Matsuda’s palm, then the wall, only to land directly in the subject’s hand. Ultimate luck. For a moment, Matsuda gets the urge to hit him square in the jaw, but then he gets the mental reminder;  _ This is an important project _ . That’s what they’ve been telling him, over and over, to the point of nausea.

 

“Can you go five minutes without destroying something?” Matsuda is preparing the equipment - opening the bonds on the two sides of the chair, getting out the electrodes, the anesthetics, the document templates to fill in. 

 

Kamukura doesn’t react. He looks blankly in one direction (purposely not Matsuda’s one), as if there was a window to stare out of with that contemplating, melancholic expression. It’s a facade, because he barely has emotions in the first place. He fits in this room. He, too, is plain, monotonous, sterile, perfect. Maybe what he’s really bored of is himself. 

 

“Sit there” the neurologist points at the surgical chair. 

 

_ Ultimate Hope _ obeys and places his hands on each side, ready for the bonds to be fastened without a hint of hesitation.

 

At the beginning of surgeries, Matsuda always shifts into a state of mind where human beings become large, fragile dolls to him instead of living creatures. He doesn’t like it but there’s no other way to cut up someone, to mess with their body, try to fix it as if it was an object. It’s easier with Kamukura than usual. Matsuda remembers the person he used to be very vaguely, an average-looking boy from the Reserve Course, normally built and well-nurtured, the opposite as the person before him. He takes note of it because Kamukura’s wrists - the ones he’s tying to the chair as he fumbles with the buckle - are surprisingly thin despite his superhuman strength. Matsuda has seen him naked, too; he’s dainty, just like anyone would be after being fed only artificially for months. If the subject was say, drugged, he could probably break him in half despite not being too robust himself. But that’s possibly the worst mental image a responsible scientist can have. 

 

“Is it going to be the usual routine or are you going to do something entertaining today?”

 

Matsuda looks at him sharply.

 

“I’m not your babysitter.”

 

“Technically, you are. Everyone but you tries to pass off this job.” 

 

“Whatever.” Matsuda doesn’t have it in him to get into a dispute over this. He also knows Kamukura is trying to rile him up on purpose. 

 

He takes a moment to admire the display before him before lowering the scanner on the other’s cranium. Kamukura’s gaze is fixated on the side, it’s empty and thoughtless, and Matsuda has a moment of compassion for this being that is closer to an animal by this point than a person. Selfish, maybe, but he has half a thought about how Kamukura silently reassures him of his own humanity despite the frankly abhorrent shit he’s obligated to perform for the sake of this institution. The fact that Matsuda has any consideration for him means he isn’t  _ like him _ . That’s positive, that’s something that can keep someone going and finding a point in life, a point besides the daily grind of doing his job, appeasing Junko and then distracting himself, it illudes him into thinking all those things are going somewhere. How egoistic - and still, how  _ human _ .

 

“Are you thinking about slicing my throat with a surgical knife?” Kamukura’s monotonous tone does anything but make it clear whether it’s a feeble attempt at a joke or not. 

 

“I don’t even want to think about what I’d get for that.”

 

“Would you do it otherwise? People kill suffering animals out of compassion, don’t they?”

 

Matsuda decides his irritation due to the constant mockery has reached a critical level and he steps close to the chair, fisting the front of the green, sterile-smelling hospital gown; Kamukura is still strapped down, and as such can’t do more than raise his brows, unimpressed, pupils travelling up the neurosurgeon’s face lazily. 

 

“ _ Suffering _ ? Don’t fucking give me that.” 

 

The lack of replies urges him to continue. Time drags on again, this checkup won’t end quickly either.

 

“That’s not you. You don’t feel shit. You know who’s suffering? The poor bastards from the Reserve Course who didn’t get to be the  _ special one _ . So don’t even  _ try _ . I swear to god, I can’t stand you.”

 

“It’s useless for you to talk to me like that,” Kamukura responds, unfazed, as the doctor’s hand is still pulling at his clothing, “my experience has no continuity with  _ that person _ and I have no recollection of the desire to become my current self. You should know better,  _ Matsuda-san _ .”

 

He pauses after gaining the upper hand in the conversation.

 

“Could it be you’re telling me this because you  _ do _ feel bad? I can barely believe someone of your intellect would be this childish.”

 

Matsuda leans in even more as his grip tightens, so he’s close enough to whisper. He can’t tear away his eyes from the dark red ones before him.

 

“To tell you the truth,” he breathes out, “I feel sorry for you. Not because you suffer, but because you’re miserable. Your whole existence is miserable.”

 

And then, Kamukura actually chuckles. Matsuda is slightly taken aback.   
  
“I know you think that,  _ Matsuda-san _ ,”  _ Is it possible to say a name more mockingly than that? _ “Because I can read every single thought you have.” The Ultimate Hope’s tone is lower, the words flow out of him quick, like the account of a detailed analysis. “I also know that’s not all, you’re not agreeing to mess with my brain because you pity me. You’re simply fascinated by my way of functioning, and I don’t even need a talent to tell that. You act in the same way as I would, chasing interest; that is why you’re so utterly predictable. So boring.”

 

Suddenly, there’s a hand around Kamukura’s neck, pinning him to the chair violently, and another grabbing his chin with a force that turns the knuckles white. Matsuda  _ knows _ , losing his cool like that equals to surrender. He doesn’t care. He’s human. 

 

“What do you know-” his voice comes out hoarse and maybe a little too loud. “What do  _ you _ know about fascination?”

 

Kamukura’s impassive face is too close in that moment. His lips are too chapped, his skin too flawless and faded. Everything is wrong. He shouldn’t be allowed to have a vessel like that, he doesn’t look like a  _ god _ but merely a perfect _ human _ . Matsuda gets second thoughts on considering this a failure of the Kamukura Project - his desire to dissect everything about Kamukura, to have some of that perfection attributed to him, to own it with a greed that isn’t even  _ human _ but  _ subhuman _ . 

 

It’s been the elephant in the room, so to speak, for a few weeks now. That uncontrollable natural urge that has made Matsuda look forward to this job ever since he was able to take a better look at the Ultimate Hope’s brain. He’s never been one of those stuck-up assholes in the main course who take their talent as granted or even consider it an annoying obligation; neurosurgery is a passion for him, something he values more than anyone in his life or even a sense of morality. It’s science first and everything else second, and being able to work on something like the Kamukura Project was his striving for a masterpiece - which ultimately found success. Checking up on the subject is a proud examination of his own work and every single scan fills him with euphoric excitement undecipherable for the outsiders. But, there’s one flaw in all this; that a human isn’t just a brain.

 

Kamukura shouldn’t have been made beautiful enough for Matsuda’s heart rate to fasten at the mere touch of him. Belying his attitude towards him earlier, he’s even hesitant to press his lips against Kamukura’s, knowing that he’s enacting a completely self-indulgent and irrational want on something too valuable to be called only his, too valuable to even touch. The other is exactly as passive as one would expect at first, but as soon as he starts reciprocating the steady movements of Matsuda’s mouth against his, the neurosurgeon pulls back in bewilderment. The evident flush on his pale face betrays him despite his laboured breaths being quiet enough not to be heard. He expects mockery, deprecating comments or disinterest - anything but his test subject glaring at him with a glint of something he’s never seen before.  _ Curiosity _ ?

 

“I did not expect-” Kamukura - he can’t even believe it - is  _ tongue-tied _ and disoriented, has to start the sentence again. “So this is what lies beneath your act, cheap sentimentalism?”

 

“Just like I said, you don’t understand.” Matsuda sounds almost hurt as he makes an attempt to back away. He finds himself unable to move more than a few inches; Kamukura has grabbed him by the necktie with one hand he apparently managed to free in the process and the next moment he’s thrown off balance, body pressed against the other’s. He should’ve tied the bonds better.

 

“Give me more.” He’s cool and inscrutable again.

 

“...Are you making fun of me?”

 

“Give me more things I don’t understand. Those ridiculous  _ feelings _ of yours and all the rest. For a moment there… I had an interest.”

 

Matsuda’s heart pounds almost audibly at that, reactions he frankly never saw coming from either of them. 

 

“I already told you-  I’m not here for your entertainment.”

 

It’s all so absurd and ridiculously  _ tense _ ; he shouldn’t revert into denial now, not when he’s so close to Kamukura, one arm sustaining his own weight against the backside of the surgical chair since the fall, the latter bending backwards a little from pressure. His other hand, he can’t pull away either. It rests on Kamukura’s still restrained left - such a sterile, polite,  _ deadly _ hand - and he’s sure the other can feel the sweat on his palm. 

 

“Maybe not, but you were the one making sexual advances on a patient.”

 

“Wha- Hold on! When have I ever-”

 

“You’re hard.”

 

It’s a blunt and humiliating accusation, but never as humiliating as it is true, Matsuda has to realize when Kamukura’s free hand casually palms him through his trousers. He winces. 

 

“Do I arouse you?” The Ultimate Hope asks in a completely neutral tone while the other doesn’t dare to move from his position. “Do you derive sexual pleasure from performing brain surgery?”

 

“Just- Could you cut that bullshit?!” 

 

“I’m genuinely curious.”

 

Matsuda says nothing first and only resorts to grabbing his free wrist with not even so much force (the other doesn’t resist) to strap it back to its place before untying the strings that keep the gown together, one by one.

 

“It’s not about surgery, dumbass” he then says, not even making the other flinch with the insult. “It’s about  _ you _ .”

 

Kamukura raises an eyebrow, only for his body to shift slightly when Matsuda opens up the fabric slowly, exposing his torso with trembling fingers. It’s not out of fear but rather a nervous excitement. His forehead glimmers from sweat. He takes his time pulling at the seams to reveal a harmonious bone structure protruding due to malnutrition. 

 

“Attracted to my talents? That’s an odd kind of perversion…”

 

“It’s not my fault,” Matsuda retorts as his hand roams up Kamukura’s ribs, pupils narrow from charm, “It’s not my fault you were made perfect. I  _ love _ examining your brain but I  _ love _ examining  _ you _ as well.” His words get more erratic, he talks like he’s in a fever. “Most of all I  _ love _ the fact that despite being Ultimate  _ Everything _ you’re sitting there, waiting for me to do whatever I want. That I can rewire you in any way I please and you won’t object. It’s bizarre and anomalous in an interesting way, this is the truth. Is this what you wanted to hear?”

 

Kamukura’s lids flutter, presumably still surprised by the loss of self-control in Matsuda’s words, such a crude description of his thoughts. The neurosurgeon looks slightly regretful for a few seconds, but he should know by now that only someone with the pettiness of regular humans would be emotionally hurt by what he said. Not someone like Izuru Kamukura. It’s a mutual agreement for them when Matsuda kisses him again, mere symbiosis they both get something out of. He wraps one leg around the doctor’s waist led by an instinct, sensually but also somewhat aggressively, surprising him a little.

 

“Let me guess,” Matsuda catches his breath, “You have some sex-related talent as well, huh?”

 

“I’m not aware of every ability I have” the other mutters to himself with a cold politeness he retains even now and which grates on the neurosurgeon’s nerves. He’ll make sure it’s gone in a little while.

 

“If not anything else, you’re supposed to be receptive to new knowledge.”

 

They kiss again, but in a few seconds Matsuda jerks away with a gasp. He brings a hand up to brush his own lip, fingers staining with a few droplets of blood.

 

“You son of a bitch…”

 

He combs through Kamukura’s thick, black locks and yanks them back, only to be greeted with an impassive face and the surgical scars showing at the very edge of his hairline. For a moment, he loses himself and brushes over them with his fingertips, enamoured with whatever he’s created inside that skull, and in that instance it’s clear to him that it’s only fair for his  _ love _ to extend to the body governed by that brain as well.  _ Get a grip, Yasuke, you’re sick _ .

 

He also has a raging hardon he should take care of, he’s reminded by the fact that, in lack of support, he’s directly pressed against Kamukura and- Wait… He smirks sardonically.

 

“I see you’re not that neutral about my- what did you call them? ‘Sexual advances’”

 

He lightly feels Kamukura’s erection, still covered by the gown now messily spread on and around his body. The experiment subject shudders and looks away with a dazed expression, likely trying to catalogue the sensations he’s going through in his brilliant mind. 

 

“It’s a physical reaction” he ends up stating quietly. 

 

“Whatever you say.”

 

Matsuda exposes him completely then and relishes in the way his body contracts in a minute wave of shivers and he leans into his touch despite the goosebumps. The skin of Kamukura’s neck tastes vaguely like disinfectant and he’s tempted to rupture it with his teeth like it was done to his lower lip but stops halfway.  _ You can’t leave marks, dipshit. They’ll have you explain where they come from _ . He strokes the other slowly all the while, in a way that’s probably more torturous than satisfying, but he’s doing it on purpose because Kamukura deserves to be messed with a little bit. Matsuda wouldn’t have expected him to ever make an expression like that, to see the crimson of his irises gradually disappear behind narrowing lids and his mouth hanging open slightly to make way for soft sighs. 

 

His eyes widen when Matsuda gives his cock a firmer squeeze and there’s a blush creeping across his face and a louder hiss that makes the corners of the doctor’s mouth curl up uncontrollably. It’s strange to see him in this light. To see his apathy mix with arousal, confusing bodily functions he has no control over as if he were drugged, silky, black strands draped across the back of the chair and his shoulders. Kamukura tilting his head back as he’s being jerked off might be the most morbidly appealing thing Matsuda has ever seen - and also the most unprofessional act he’s ever committed, but he’s beyond caring. Hope’s Peak fades in comparison to his own fascination. Selfish, again, but is he really any worse than whoever came up with this project? Is it really that bad to give back this shell of a person some of his humanity?

 

No, those are not the right considerations to be having in the middle of this. Matsuda stops his ministrations for a few seconds, fumbles with his shirt buttons until he clumsily gets the whole thing off, then he looks back at Kamukura. He’s caught off guard by the display of his concave, malnurtured chest heaving up and down with quiet pants, his foggy gaze, the sheer perfection of it all. 

 

“I’m getting... bored again” he mouths, slowly. 

 

“Next time you complain I’ll hold you down by your throat and fuck you without preparation if you prefer” Matsuda sighs sarcastically, not expecting the other’s eyes to illuminate in response.

 

“That sounds like it could be interesting.”

 

“You’re honestly so hard to deal with.”

 

He reaches at the counter with countless flasks and containers on it, lifting up a few hastily to ponder which one would be the least harmful to use as a lubricant. They’re running a bad risk here, but maybe focus, medical expertise and Ultimate luck combined will help them get off without genital injuries. He finally finds a bottle of medical lubricant and deems it appropriate, then proceeds to push a lubed-up finger into Kamukura, earning a surprised noise but way less reaction any regular person would’ve had. It angers him a little so he adds a digit out of spite. He has careful hands, the hands of a surgeon - and he explores the other’s insides methodically, searching for pleasurable spots to throw Kamukura off kilter so that he can’t formulate words anymore, let alone utter the dreaded ‘ _ boring _ ’ he likes to say so often. 

 

“You’re taking long.”

 

Matsuda huffs through his nose, trying not to lash out, and removes his fingers from Kamukura’s ass in resignation. 

 

“I believe I said something about complaining earlier.”

 

The Ultimate Hope remains silent, only lifting his brows slightly; even like this, tied down, naked, spread out and vulnerable, he manages to look aloof and menacing. His eyes bore into Matsuda’s like daggers, as if he were challenging him, ‘ _ You’re too afraid to do it anyway _ ’ or better yet ‘ _ I  _ dare _ you to do it _ ’. He hesitates, because once he lets this go too far, he  _ will _ leave bruises. He looks at that smug expression again. To hell with self-restraint, to hell with it all. He practically launches himself at the other.

 

Kamukura soon finds himself with two large, bony hands wrapped around his neck and for a second he fights for air and coughs, finally not having predicted something. Matsuda feels an almost animalistic urge in that moment with no care for his duties; he wants to shut Kamukura up and let him know his place once and for all for making fun of his being considerate, for thinking he can keep acting like this in his situation.

 

“Fine,” he pants, “we’ll play hard then. Is this  _ interesting _ enough?”

 

Matsuda skilfully unbuckles his belt and pulls out his neglected erection with one hand, all the while choking Kamukura with the other. Of course, the latter can’t answer the question in lack of oxygen and it feels vindictively satisfying. He enters him in a single movement with a breathy groan of relief. Kamukura seems still intent on desperately gasping for air - and it’s hard to see his face behind the misplaced locks of hair covering it - but Matsuda can feel him tense up and tighten around his cock. Then, as he starts moving, Kamukura reaches a critical level of deprivation, he thrashes and twitches, and the neurosurgeon loosens his grip with a bit of regained consciousness and panic. The other seems to settle down a little.

 

As Matsuda enters him again and again, he sweeps his hair aside, letting go of his neck. Kamukura is almost unrecognizable, face red and wet with sweat from exertion. He catches his breath rapidly between each thrust, letting his head fall to the side in an apparent act of surrender as his knees go weaker around the other’s waist. Matsuda is at a point where he has to start keeping himself from getting off too quickly because Kamukura feels good around him, insanely and perfectly good, how wouldn’t he. The small flinches of his face as he gets pounded make the struggle more than worth it. 

 

“To think that you would be into this… Somehow, I’m not surprised” Matsuda rambles as he goes deeper. Kamukura, who finally has enough air in his lungs to speak, lets incoherent fragments of phrases fall from his lips, whispering and heaving;

 

“...More- Choke me more…”

 

If only the Steering Committee could see this… They’d be wondering what went wrong. 

 

“Horny bitch” Matsuda sneers in an ironic tone, but he complies nevertheless, constricting the other’s windpipe again while slamming him into the surgical chair. 

 

Kamukura’s eyes roll back in pleasure, face going pale then red again with a series heavy wheezes and the doctor doesn’t let go until his legs spasm and his nails dig into the armrests they’re tied to. 

 

“I was so close…” he pants, following up the sentence in a way Matsuda doesn’t expect; “I was so close to dying… I could feel it…” And there’s something akin to a smile on his face that the neurosurgeon honestly can’t interpret but it induces a feeling of dread in him.

 

Something overcomes him and he reaches at the bonds, one by one, untying Kamukura’s wrists that now have visible bruises on them from struggling. He latches his arms around Matsuda’s neck without hesitation, the other grabbing him by the thigh for better access as he pushes his cock in again. They’re both close. Kamukura’s hands grasp at his back and messy hair ferociously, leaving a trail of scratches behind that will surely cause inconveniences later. Their simultaneous movements get faster, more erratic - Matsuda kisses him again, earning a series of nips and bites that he can’t bring himself to care about anymore. 

 

“You’re being annoying, holding your voice back” he mumbles when he pulls away. 

 

He doesn’t expect the immediate compliance that follows; Kamukura erupts in a series of desperate moans that almost sound like sobs, a hint of a tear glimmering in the corner of his eye.

 

“That’s it, just like that” Matsuda nuzzles against his neck to whisper in his ear as he keeps fucking him senseless. He strokes Kamukura’s cock as the other clings to him with all his limbs like a greedy animal, his noises getting louder when Matsuda hits the right spot. He can see the Ultimate Hope formulate something that looks like his first name - or maybe he’s imagining things.

 

“ _ Izuru _ ,” he can’t keep himself, “ _ Izuru… _ ”

 

Kamukura comes, finally, arching his entire body with a sharp, guttural cry, and the image sends the neurologist over the edge as well, making him ejaculate deep inside the other with a groan of pleasure, his eyes going shut in the process. Everything is perfect in that moment and, on the spot, Matsuda wishes he could prolong it and never think about the circumstances again. He’s surprised to find that the loss of control and confusion in Kamukura’s eyes distract his thoughts completely from the sophisticated structure of his brain, his countless talents, his superhuman essence or whatever else. Maybe, even without all those things, he’d still want him. And that terrifies him.

 

In a few minutes, he’s already cleaning up Kamukura’s body with a wet towel, strictly professional moves, looking him in the eye for a single second with a scowl as if not having the energy to move was solely his fault. He examines his body in the meantime, gritting his teeth in frustration at the bruises and more than evident choke marks on his neck, looking for a sound reason to scold the subject. 

 

“You,” he growls when he gets to wiping the sweat off Kamukura’s apathetic face, “you absolute shit for brains, what am I going to tell them now? They’ll think I tried to kill you or something.”

 

“I wish…”

 

Matsuda brushes it off, resuming his cleaning and mumbling a series of ‘ _ Shit _ ’ and ‘ _ Fuck _ ’ under his breath. He’s finished soon and he retrieves his shirt to put it back on without casting a single glance at the other. They both fall silent until he speaks again, to the side, as if he wasn’t even addressing Kamukura.

 

“Keep dreaming.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Matsuda looks into his eyes with all possible seriousness.

 

“I’m never going to kill you. I can’t.”

 

_ It’s not that I  _ technically  _ can’t. It’s not that I wouldn’t disobey the Steering Committee. It’s not that I’m scared of you. I could’ve choked you to death earlier and you would’ve let me. I just can’t picture myself doing it. There’s no reason. Damn you and damn it all. _

 

Kamukura looks completely unaffected. The Ultimate Neurosurgeon decides not to let himself get angry over it. 

 

“I don’t feel like doing a checkup after this. Just tell me now if something’s abnormal, pain or headaches or fainting.”

 

“Nothing of the sort.”

 

“What do I say about the injuries?” It’s more of a rhetorical question.

 

“Come up with something, you’re knowledgeable enough.”

 

“How flattering, being complimented by you.”

 

He takes a few minutes to fill out the forms; in the meanwhile Kamukura redresses quietly and makes an attempt at standing up, only to wince in pain and fall back onto the chair. Matsuda stares at him, not sure whether to feel pity or endearment. 

 

“Stop trying, it’s painful to look at. Just go to bed when you can properly stand.”

 

The place where Kamukura sleeps is nothing but a rudimentary hospital bed placed in a nearby lab equipped with cameras and sensors so he can be assisted in case something goes wrong. He’s free to move around in the old school building - it’s accurately isolated anyway. He’s not strong enough to have his own room yet, but he will be soon - at least that’s the aim. For all Matsuda knows it could end up with him remaining an atrophied mass of skin and bones with a godlike brainpower and a dysfunctional body. He’s not too familiar with what they’re planning to do with the physical aspects and training, it’s not his field. 

 

For the time being, the experimental subject remains in the chair with a hollow expression. The doctor is about to leave, tossing a phrase his way at last.

 

“Don’t destroy anything, including yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

 

“You have no meetings with me scheduled for Saturdays” Kamukura blinks.

 

Matsuda bites his lip and snorts.

 

“Yes, I know. Goodnight.” He slams the door behind himself a little too violently. 

 

The other can hear the sound of his footsteps from the corridor outside. They seem erratic; perturbed, even. Then, everything goes quiet until the next morning. 

 


End file.
